


A Crown and a Throne

by 1949



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: But the characters aren't copies, Edric wants to be a knight, Peridan wears mail at meals, Post LWW, Sallowpad is not a little bird, Tags show similarities to ASOIAF characters, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3443120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1949/pseuds/1949
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Narnia, Year 1017. The Pevensies have disappeared, leaving Narnia in chaos. A crown and a throne are there to be claimed, but at what cost?</p><p>Set in Narnia, but with a number of themes from ASOIAF (for example: what it means to be a true monarch; characters forced to make choices with no clear moral answer; deconstruction of fantasy tropes; unreliable narrators) and eventual crossover.</p><p>Prologue: A year before the Pevensies disappear, Peridan reflects on monarchs and monarchy.</p><p>Chapter 1: Edric and his friends are introduced, and life seems like a song...until it doesn't.</p><p>Chapter 2: Peridan tries to deal with a collapsing Narnia, and reaches a momentous decision.</p><p>Chapter 3: Corin has a very unpleasant surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Peridan I

** Prologue **

** Peridan **

_Victory_. The bells of Anvard were pealing in triumph, and he could see his old monarch and his new ones meeting near the brown castle’s great gate. All around fellow Northerners were cheering, and the Calormenes sullenly threw down their weapons. The Narnian battle plan had worked to perfection…no, _his_ plan had worked to perfection. If there was a moment to be satisfied, to let his heart swell with pride and national fervor, it was now.

But Peridan did not join in the shouting. A breath of wind was passing across the battlefield, driving a cloud of smoke and dust before it. He took care not to inhale it; he was sure that if he did, an acrid taste of metal and blood would be left on his palette. Some called it victory, but for him it was just another battle.

 _Battles_. One after another they came, till his memory often could no longer separate them. There were the old fights against the White Witch, ambushing her supply lines or desperately fighting for this or that nameless, snow-swept crag. The Narnian guerillas remembered him with gratitude for having been one of the few Archenlanders who dared to assist them in that long winter, but the memory of those days was faded now. He remembered spring though. The enemy had finally trapped him and his men in a cave, only to melt away like the snows when the new royal army marched to rescue them. Oh, the suffocating snows were finally gone, and they had seen the blessed green grass again. But he insisted on burying his faithful fallen companions before meeting his saviors.

Peridan had served Peter and Susan and Edmund and Lucy for the fourteen years since. They made him a lord and he in turn had planned their campaigns for them. There were others like Orieus who could inspire the men and charge the enemy far better, but where and when to charge? What about ensuring that the archers had enough arrows or thinking about cutting off the enemy’s retreat? It was in planning a battle that Peridan was at his best.

But part of every battle planned and battle fought was good men fighting, and dying. Sure, the monarchs had managed one or two bloodless victories. But Peridan was a soldier, as were most of those whom he had fought that day, and a bloodless battle was not in their vocabulary. And so he fought, and killed, just like Edmund and Lucy. But the taste of victory was never any less bitter.

The smoking remains of the great battering ram were nearby, singeing what was left of the once-grassy lawn. Next to it, he could see an unfortunate Calormene who had been pinned to the ground by a Narnian lance. Now he lay side by side with the fallen knight of whom he had been the last prize. Other Calormenes had been charred by the flaming arrows sent from the walls. And he did not care to see what the boiling oil poured from the ramparts had done. Brave men had fought and died beside him and opposite him. But this was war, and good men who thought it a grand spectacle would be sorely disillusioned. Maybe the thrill of a first fight would linger for some, Aslan knows how, but Peridan had seen enough fighting that such romantic notions of battle were long gone.

 _Laughter. People were laughing._ There they were, a crowd of Narnians and Archenlanders roaring uproariously at the Calormrene prince Rabadash. Somehow, the back of his mail shirt had caught in an old hitching ring. Now the proud prince was hanging on the walls of Anvard, the subject of many a jest that would certainly travel the world and grow in the telling. Fools, Peridan thought. They were all fools.

His own people were fools, for more wounded men would die as the healthy stood and laughed. But Rabadash…Rabadash bore the greatest burden. The burden of his own dead men, the burden of all the dead Northerners, the burden of the carnage that lay about. Dozens, hundreds of men would never again visit the busy markets of Tashbaan and Azim Balda or tread the green vales and dewy meadows of the North. Why?

 _It must have been the crown_ , Peridan thought. He had seen the Tisroc’s crown—a great and ugly pointed piece, topped by a depiction of Tash and his four outstretched arms. The gold and inlaid jewels were certainly enough to buy many great country estates, maybe even one of the smaller island countries. But all the gold and jewels meant weight, a crushing weight of power and responsibility.

He almost felt pity for Rabadash. The Crown Prince must have seen the coming heaviness, and felt the need to prove himself worthy of that crown. Calormen was a warrior society; by taking Queen Susan and conquering the North, Rabadash would show the people that he was a warrior, one ready to be Tisroc. The crown would rest shakily on his head otherwise. Maybe the prince was not such a fool after all.

 _I thank Aslan every day for not having to bear such a burden_ , Peridan reflected. _I thank Him every day for gifting Narnia with four monarchs who have not been driven mad by the crown. I thank Him for being able to serve them_. Four monarchs, for whom he would die if necessary. But why?

 _I serve Narnia_ , he thought. _I buried my closest friends in Narnia; I buried my childhood innocence there_. _That green soil is precious to me in more ways than one. And so I serve those who protect and guide my adopted land._  It was curious how monarchs were only men or beasts just like their subjects. They ate the same, drank the same, procreated the same, died the same, but a kingdom would be adrift without monarchs. All the swords and spears in Narnia would be useless without somebody to direct those same swords and spears.

Peridan shook his head. He could see the weight of crowns, all so vividly in the carnage about him, and yet he sought to ensure that his monarchs would continue wearing them. It was a contradiction, but he rarely lost sleep over it. Maybe it was precisely _because_ he worked so closely with kings and queens that he knew the burden, the cost. His monarchs, Narnia…perhaps one day a third would be added, but those were the two standards he claimed to serve.

A cough interrupted his thoughts. An old doctor, apron stained, likely with more blood than the man had ever seen in his long life. “You can set ‘im down here, m’lord. Many thanks. But if you could be so kind as to help us…”

He had carried a wounded Talking Cheetah all the way to the overflowing infirmary. And the smell…he ought to have known that he would never escape it. Blood and metal, metal and blood. But there was work and service to be done, and Peridan would not place himself first.

He breathed.

* * *

 

The fiddlers sat down and the minstrel strummed his lute. “Oh, the horse and his boy, the horse and his boy. When Rabadash the Ass marched with his dread host from Tashbaan evil…”

The stars twinkled above the great feast on the lawn. Peridan wondered if they were winking. In a couple days, two hundred men had already become a dread host. It would certainly grow further, and the stars with their seemingly endless watch would see all. _What tales have you seen over the centuries?_

A clink of metal on pewter. A serving maid, with a great pitcher of ale held over his empty mug. “No,” Peridan said simply.

The Archen lord beside him pinched the maid’s sleeve and Peridan’s mug. “Yes!” he roared. “One man’s loss and another’s gain!” That would be Lord Tran, a giant of a man by Archen standards. The beginnings of a beard forming on his jutting jaw were already flecked with foam from his previous, solitary mug. “Why don’t you partake?” he added, seemingly as an afterthought.

 A slight smile formed on Peridan’s lips. Others called his face called solid and stolid and clean, like the man behind it. “Alcohol dulls the senses. And I’d rather have all five of them. It appears you’ve already lost at least one, my dear Tran. That’s _my_ mug you’re drinking from.”

“Did you need it?” mumbled the Archenlander. He took another swig in disgust, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Nevertheless, you saved my life earlier today. I pledge myself and my sword to you, to do with as you will.”

“I’m guessing that was your first battle?”

Tran flushed, misunderstanding. “It was, considering that we haven’t been at war for years. Believe me, if I had a choice, I would have been at the head of the vanguard, first to meet the enemy face to face…”

‘No, no, no.” Tran seemed intent on proving his inexperience, but that boast would be a topic for another night. “I certainly do not question your bravery. But once you’ve fought in enough battles, Tran, you learn not to pledge yourself to everyone who saves your life. I can think of at least a dozen living men—and beasts—to whom I owe the pleasure of being alive. Someday, one would ask me for one thing and another for the opposite. It’s much more convenient not having so many masters.”

“What are your masters, Peridan? What do you serve? I’m sure there are times where they conflict.”

These questions were a surprise. Perhaps Tran had more intelligence than Peridan credited him with. “I serve Narnia. I serve its rulers, as human beings. Do these duties conflict? I ask myself that question quite often, and I always say nay. But if they did…I am not so sure. I think I would…”

He did not have a chance to finish as cries of “hear, hear” passed down the tables, accompanied by a great banging of mugs on wood. Tran, though he doubtless had no idea what was happening, took a mug and beat the table with the rest. At least he was decent enough to leave Peridan his pilfered mug—emptied already, Peridan noticed ruefully.

His eyes followed those of the others to the head table, where King Lune stood with his two sons. Corin, he of the curly blonde locks and lithe frame, raised to be a king, and quite unready. He was scratching under his collar, clearly wishing to rip off the fabric as soon as possible. His feet were tapping in a way that proclaimed being sent to bed would not deter him from running wild in the castle. Running wild, free, and in manner certainly not befitting the heir to the throne of Archenland.

 _Corin, young, innocent Corin, the weight of being king would destroy you. To not only fight but to send others to their deaths, to listen without emotion as diplomats lie to your face, to make decisions that can affect a nation or a poor widow, likely both…you would be left as a shell. Youthful enthusiasm, the joy in your soul that we love, would be sucked from your being if you ascended the throne today._ May Aslan grant King Lune many years, indeed.

The barbers had not bothered trying to untangle the matted, tangled mess of rarely-cut and combed hair that Cor had arrived with, so it was simply cut short. From his face it was obvious how closely related he was to Corin, but otherwise they were day and night, summer and winter. Cor was standing firmly with his bandaged hand resting on his enameled sword hilt, graciously acknowledging farewells. Peridan guessed that the new prince was really shaking, but he didn’t seem to show it. Some watching whispered that it was obvious he had royal blood from how easily he seemed to be settling into the royal customs. _What of Corin, then?_ _If only Cor had been the older brother, though I know nothing of his birth. I am a soldier, not a courtier. Gossip is for courtiers, and I was born a peasant._ Cor would have been a good king, Peridan concluded. _Prince Cor, once called Shasta, you have been a slave. Therefore you understand something of what it is to be a king._

Lune was speaking, his voice rolling along the full tabletops. “And tomorrow, Cor, thou shalt come over all the castle with me, for it will be thine to guard when I’m gone.”

A gasp arose from the Narnians and those Archenlanders who, like Peridan, were young or had grown up away from the court. “But Corin will be King, then, Father,” spoke the puzzled Cor.

“Nay, lad, thou art my heir. The crown comes to thee.”

The weight was starting to descend on Cor. It had been too sudden; it was to his credit that his shoulders didn’t slump. “But I don’t want it,” he finally said. “I’d far rather…”

“’Tis no question of what thou wanted, Cor, nor I either. ‘Tis in the course of law.”

“But if we’re twins we must be the same age.” Realization dawned on Peridan at Cor’s words. How could he have been so blind to not realize?

“Nay,” said the old King with a laugh. “One must come first. Thou art Corin’s elder by full twenty minutes. And his better too, let’s hope, though that’s no great mastery.”

The younger prince whooped, bringing a slight smile to Peridan’s face and a shadow to Lune’s. “Hurrah! Hurrah! I shan’t have to be King, I shan’t have to be King. I’ll always be a prince. It’s princes that have all the fun.”

_Young, innocent Corin. I see in you the boy I once was. Maybe it is for the best that you remain so. Cor must now bear the burden; it is for the best. Realize how blessed you are, now that you will not be king._

“And that’s truer than thy brother knows, Cor,” Lune was saying. “For this is what it means to be king: to be first in every desperate attack and last in every desperate retreat, and when there’s hunger in the land, as must be now and then in bad year, to wear finer clothes and laugh louder over a scantier meal than any man in your land.”

Peridan studied the two faces, one setting with realization and acceptance, the other jovial as ever. _Wise words, your majesty. Oh, the crushing weight of a crown._

* * *

 

_Because Peridan finds feasts boring._

__


	2. Edric I

** Edric **

_It was the fourteenth year of the reign of the High King Peter in Cair Paravel and of his brother Edmund and sisters Susan and Lucy. And in the far west of Narnia, beyond the town of Chippingford and almost to the great waterfall and the Cauldron Pool that marked the beginning of the south branch of the Great River, there lived a boy of ten named Edric. It being a fine autumn morning, he was a-hunting with his friends._

At least that was the way a story would begin, Edric thought, about a prince or a lord. He had grown up on these stories, hanging attentively to every word of the tales that the man whom he called Papa Einar would spin. Einar could take any tale and make it golden, like Rumpelstiltskin with straw. There were the old accounts of Frank and Helen, and of the kings that came after them. There were tales of knights who rode about the land, setting things right and winning the hearts of pure, gentle maidens. New stories made their appearance over the years, accounts of the Pevensies and their great deeds that would contribute to the legend of what was becoming known as the Golden Age of Narnia. But no tales were told of one like him. _Nobody ever tells a story about a bastard_ , Edric reflected.

“Mayhaps you’ll be a knight one day,” Einar would say, laying a wrinkled hand on his shoulder, “And they’ll sing songs of you…my son.” But Papa Einar was not his real father, or Mama Brigid his true mother. They had no children of their own. Ten years before, a man and a centaur, their faces covered, had given them a child of barely a month to raise and care for. Einar and Brigid had fulfilled the bargain; Edric had never known a home or parents other than theirs, nor did he wish to. But whenever he left the shelter of their little farm, he could hear the not-so-quiet whispers. He had learned what a whore was, from hearing Lothar and Bracegirdle call his mother that. Edric thought it unfair. A knight would not speak against those not present to defend themselves.

But neither could he truly defend himself from the taunts. They were terribly unoriginal; the word bastard always seemed to be involved. But that one word still cut sharp…

_Crack. Crunch._

Edric glanced over at his companion. Wooster was a bulgy bear of twenty years. In human terms, he would be about fifteen years old; and according to the jibes of others, he had the intelligence of one of ten years.

“Sorry,” Wooster mumbled. The great axe resting on his shoulder had clipped into an overhanging branch, and he had kept walking into the tangled mass as it fell. The bear was now trying to disentangle himself, making even more of a ruckus. “’Fraid that’ll scare off any deer.”

“It’s fine.” Edric could not bring himself to be angry at the bear, as he helped pull away the mess. Wooster had a great heart, surpassed only by his strength, even if he was clumsy. _We’re friends. A deer isn’t as important as that_.

But as Wooster brushed himself off, they could hear something crashing through the woods. “There it is!” Edric shouted. A fine buck, with a rack that would be the envy of many a house. And its meat, salted or smoked, then packed away, would make many winter meals far cheerier.

It was moving now, back towards where they had just been. “Let’s head it off!” Edric shouted over his shoulder to Wooster. “Drive it back towards the other two.” Now he was running. He felt the ground fall away lightly beneath his feet, his brown hair streaming in the wind. He knew these woods like the back of his hand, not that he spent much time examining his hands. Here was a stone which he could leap off of; there was the hole in which he had once rolled his ankle. Wooster was stomping after him; the bear’s heavy footfalls would spook the deer far more than his own, Edric knew. The deer was turning away now, just where they wanted.

There was a sharp thwang from their left, and the buck stumbled to the ground with an arrow beneath a shoulder. Edric raced to finish it off, Wooster hot on his heels. Moments later, two others also came crashing through the underbrush.

“Snorri!” Edric called to the taller of the two. “It surprised us; I’m glad you noticed in time.”

The faun unstrung his bow and hung it over his back. “I wish I waited,” he said, looking mournfully at the buck.

“It was a fine shot!” exclaimed Hornblower the badger. “While running, none the less.”

“You can’t make neck shots all the time,” Edric agreed. “We won’t lose too much meat.”

Snorri shook his head. “That arrow took an awful long time to make. I was going to save it for something larger.”

They all chuckled at that. The buck was the largest that they had ever shot, and likely larger than any they would ever see again. “Come on!” Edric shouted. “Let’s see if we can gut this faster than you can make another arrow!”

“And leave all the stinky work to you? I would never do that.”

The four jested and bantered, and they had the deer prepared before the sun was high in the sky. Then they set off, the dead deer tied to a pole that Wooster and Snorri carried between them. They found a fairly clear path, and soon met the road that ran along the river back to Chippingford. Hornblower began a merry tune, and they all joined in, Wooster with his rough voice that spoke of earth and wood, Snorri and his own voices that had not yet cracked, Hornblower’s gentle lilt. _Are you going to Chippingford fair; parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme…_

“Old Feathers,” Wooster interrupted.

Old Feathers was their nickname for the sheriff, who was presently walking towards them. Chauncer was a very large rooster, whose comb reached nearly to Snorri’s belt and above Edric’s. His favorite accompaniment was a large wooden baton, which he clutched under a wing like an umbrella. Edric doubted he could even use it, but Chauncer loved it and viewed it as a symbol of his authority. “Well, if it isn’t our little band of misfits,” the rooster crowed as he approached.

Edric flushed, but he knew it was true. He was a bastard, to be shunned by society as a product of sin. Wooster was slow-witted and clumsy, the butt of jokes among his own people. Snorri was the village rascal, always ending up in jail for one small offence or another. Hornblower was different; she was sweet and gentle, and a badger would come one day to give her a home and make her a wife. But she owed everything to Edric; he had found her as a babe in the woods, alone and shivering after her parents had been caught and killed in a sudden storm. He had named her Hornblower for her parents’ horn that she had been piteously trying to blow for help, and had brought her back home for Einar and Brigid to raise. They were all misfits, and their best friends were each other. And that was almost enough. When Chauncer called them a band, that meant something; others saw their unity, and Edric was glad of that.

But Snorri would not be quiet. “We’d better find a Fountain of Shortliness, Edric. I think our sheriff mistakes us for somebody else.”

“Be quiet. Handcuffs shorten any person. This deer you’ve shot. Was it from the royal forests?” There was a pause as Chauncer stared at each of them in turn. “Well? Lost your tongues? Silence gives consent?”

Snorri shrugged. “You said to be quiet.”

Edric decided to step in before his friend antagonized the prickly sheriff any more. “We weren’t poaching, sheriff. If you follow this road for a hundred paces, you’ll find a little path on the right. Follow that till you find a rock with a cleft the size of a melon straight across, then turn and follow the sun till you reach a little brook. Go upstream till you reach a sycamore with an oak on the southeast and a beech on the west, and you’ll find the deer parts we left behind. It’s outside the royal forest.”

The sheriff thought for a moment. “I suppose I’ll have to take your bastard word. For what it’s worth.” Chauncer smoothed out his feathers and continued walking down the road.

The band burst out laughing as soon as the sheriff was out of sight. “He’ll never figure those directions out,” Snorri managed to gasp. “Quick thinking. That’s supposed to be my profession.”

“We weren’t actually poaching, were we?” Wooster asked, blinking his eyes.

“No, no. My directions were accurate.” They always tried to stay inside the law, at least all but Snorri. What good would a knight be if he didn’t obey the laws he defended? “Let’s take this deer to Papa Einar and Mama Brigid’s house. It’s the closest.”

Einar and Brigid’s house nestled on the edge of the forest, with little plots of vegetables and grain growing on the other sides. It had been built out of wood when they returned from exile, after the defeat of winter, with a stone chimney. Over the years Einar had added more stone all around the wood, till they had a snug house that would be quite warm in winter and yet have the cheer and coziness of wood on the inside. It seemed to Edric everything that a home should be. He never called it “my house,” though. It would not be his to inherit after Einar and Brigid; it would instead pass to a distant cousin. A bastard came after all other relatives. And Einar and Brigid, as much as they cared for him, would never adopt him. He was not of their blood.

Mama Brigid was coming out to meet them, her sleeves rolled up and a rolling pin in her hands. She was a tall, thin woman with sharp features and a sharper tongue, though it belied a kind heart. Her dress was grey homespun; all their clothes were made of that, though sometimes Einar would find or buy some saffron or woad or madder to dye them. “Hang that out in the shed,” she ordered, with a short glance at the deer. “Einar and I will butcher it this afternoon, and you all will be here for dinner. We’ll have roast venison with potatoes and carrots.” There was never any ‘if’ with Mama Brigid. Nor would she ever admit to being impressed, even if they had brought in the White Stag itself from hunting. “Then you can pick up your portions, Wooster and Snorri.”

“Snorri should have the largest part,” Edric put in. “He shot it.”

“I’ll take the antlers, if you let me help you,” Snorri suggested with a smirk.

Brigid shook her rolling pin at the faun. “Don’t you even try, Master Snorri. You’re like to pinch all our knives while at it, you little rascal. Now be off. That goes for you too, you great big bear. Edric, fetch some wood. And tell Papa Einar to get his fat bottom in here.” They loved each other, Einar and Brigid, though the good-natured Einar sometimes complained that when they married, he had been presented with his wife’s hand, tongue, and nothing else.

“Can I invite Hilda over for dinner when I’m done?” Edric asked.

“Yes, a haunch from that deer should feed another mouth or two. Now, don’t you be talking to her without supervision…”

Edric ran off to do the appointed tasks. Snorri was lounging against the little brown gate when he was done. “How old does she think you are?” the faun laughed. He began mimicking Mama Brigid. “Don’t be talking to her without supervision.”

“We grow up more quickly than fauns,” Edric shot back as he ran down the road. “And bastards must grow up fastest of all,” he added to himself.

Snorri and Wooster made their way back to their homes into the woods, but Edric directed his feet east along the river road. The road was edged on the left by the forest and on the right by the river, but here and there settlers had cleared little swathes of wood and placed their houses, far from civilization. Few of those who lived here had ever seen Cair Paravel, or even Beruna; as for Telmar and Calmoren, these were only distant names. The people scratched a living from the soil and the woods, and learned to depend on each other. It should have been a peaceful, quiet world. But Edric could never escape the reminders of who he was.

Across the road from Hilda’s house, almost at the outskirts of Chippingford, a satyr and a dwarf were skipping stones into the river. Lothar and Bracegirdle, his worst tormentors. He hoped they wouldn’t notice him. Maybe he could slip in the back way. But no, that wouldn’t be proper. Edric tiptoed towards the gate.

“Beards and bedsteads!” Bracegirdle exclaimed, looking over. “What’s the world coming to? You’d think regular people wouldn’t have to sneak around like crooks.”

Lothar took the cue. “He isn’t a regular person. He’s a bastard. He’s usually more brazen, though. Thinks he can call himself a knight and rise above us.”

“Must get it from his mother,” Bracegirdle added. “Brazen as a whore, she must have been. Probably was one, come to think of it.”

The satyr slapped his friend on the back. “Wasn’t _probably_ one, stupid. Who else would just abandon their child? Not that I see much to care for in him, anyway.”

Edric clenched his fists. _I won’t cry_. He tried to think of something to say. _I can’t just run from them_ , he repeated to himself over and over. But before he could say anything, he heard Hilda’s voice coming from the porch. “Now run along before I come out and beat you over your empty heads.” She was standing there on the porch, the broom in her hand pointed at his tormenters.

Bracegirdle laughed. “Bulbs and bolsters! Now he’s got a woman to defend him. Some knight.”

Hilda advanced threateningly on the two. “And who’s going to defend _you_?” she snapped.

Lothar glanced at Bracegirdle. “Come on; it’s boring here anyway.” He glanced back over his shoulder as the two walked off. “Reckon there’ll be some more bastards out of those two, some day. Just look at that gap-tooth.”

“Come on in and don’t mind them,” Hilda whispered as she unlatched the gate to admit Edric. Hilda was a buxom, gap-toothed girl, three years older than Edric. She had always been kind to him, and he thought her pretty, no matter what Lothar and Bracegirdle said. Today she had her blonde hair tied back under a white kerchief. “They’re cowards, that’s what they are,” she continued.

_But they’re not afraid till challenged_ , Edric reflected. _I’ll be a knight someday. Then I can protect others from people like them_. Yet he felt ashamed as he followed Hilda inside, past the rosebushes that grew by the door. _I can’t even protect myself yet_.

Hilda’s younger siblings were inside. Little Gertrud with her cap of blonde curls was playing with some blocks that Edric had carved for her. The smells of bay leaves and cumin and thyme wafted from the kitchen, and Edric glanced in and saw young Harold stirring a pot of stew. The house had only three rooms—a main room, a small kitchen, and an even smaller bedroom for ailing old Osmund. The children slept in the attic.

“Alright, Harold, you can go play outside now. You too, Gertrud.” Hilda pressed a kiss on her little sister’s head and guided her to the door.

“I’ll stir the stew,” Edric put in. Hilda looked harassed and overworked. “Please sit down.” There was a little bench in the corner of the kitchen, and the girl gratefully sat down. Her mother was dead, and her father had been badly injured and crippled by a falling tree. It was now up to her to raise her two younger siblings and manage the little farm. Edric would help whenever he could, and sometimes he managed to persuade Wooster and Snorri to help as well.

“I’ll be a knight one day,” he declared. “They’ll insult a bastard, but not a knight.”

Hilda laughed. Edric liked when she did that. He thought the way the dimples on her nose would shake was cute, and she had laughed too little since her mother died. “Do you think whether you’re a knight or a bastard matters to me, Edric? You’ll always be a kind boy, no matter what Lothar or Bracegirdle or others call you.”

“But it’ll matter to me.” _I would give everything to be a knight_ , Edric thought. “And think of what I could do! I could protect Wooster, and go fight the Telmarines or Calormenes. And I could have a farm, and your father and Gertrud and you could live there.” Harold would inherit the family property, not Hilda. “You could be my lady.”

Hilda turned away. Edric thought that she was smiling. “And how will you pay for all that, if you’re away being a knight?”

“The knights always have a little castle or farm in the stories. I suppose it’s given to them out of gratitude, or as a reward for their bravery.” It was a fond dream of Edric’s. He would have a little farm, just like Papa Einar’s. Hilda would be the mistress, and he would go back there to her after a war. Maybe he would be carrying a captured enemy banner; he would present it to her and she would be the proudest, happiest girl in Chippingford. “Oh, I almost forgot why I came!” he added, nearly dropping the ladle. “Snorri shot the biggest buck you’ll ever see! You have to come over to dinner.”

“Just me?” There was a little bit of teasing in her voice. “None of the others have had venison in a long time, and I’m sure it’ll do Father good.”

_I should have thought of that. A knight would do that._ “Of course. I can help wheel your father over.” Edric was sure that Mama Brigid would complain at first but be secretly happy that more people would be present to appreciate her cooking. He refused the stew that Hilda offered; he would have to be back for Mama Brigid’s lunch.

Harold and Gertrud were chasing each other in the yard. Harold holloed at him before catching up with his sister and hoisting her up onto his narrow shoulders. Gertrud waved a chubby hand at him, clutching one of the wooden blocks. Edric wondered if they still would love him when they learned what he was. _Maybe I’ll be a knight by then. Then they won’t think of me as a bastard._

He noticed an approaching horse and cloud of dust as he unlatched the gate. “Malachy!” he called. There was no mistaking the easy gait and the ease with which the rider dismounted. Malachy was kind to him, though too old to be part of his group. Now fifteen, the young man enjoyed riding about the countryside and generally avoiding helping his father on their nearby farm.

“They're gone!” he shouted to Edric. “Vanished!"

"Who?" Edric tried to calm down the older boy.

"The Pevensies. Our rulers. Woe is the day!"

* * *

 

You sweet summer child...+Snorri


	3. Peridan II

** Peridan **

One of the candles flickered a few last times, as if trying to remember when it had lived in brilliant glory, before the flame was extinguished. Peridan’s eyes followed the dripping, hardening wax as it travelled down the candlestick. A trickle found its way to the worn table, where it formed a last crest on the curious mound of yellow and red tallow.

On the morrow, he would ask a servant to remelt the wax and make new candles. Then he remembered how few servants were left. He sighed; on the morrow, he would be in the kitchens himself, making candles. How low the Royal Council of Narnia had fallen in the two years since the monarchs disappeared, to be making the candles for its own meetings…

“The council will come to order,” Lord Tumnus intoned. “All you gentlemen make your reports, if you please.”

“It’ll be the same as last time,” grumbled Argens the dwarf. “So no, it doesn’t please me.”

The dwarf had served as a tax-collector for the White Witch, only to desert to the Narnian guerillas when his own family was killed. He had served the Pevensies well for fifteen years, and now he had the hopeless and thankless job of managing the realm’s finances. _A dwarf without family, loved by none, and with no desire to be loved. That makes him dangerous. He is almost like me, in fact._

Tumnus sighed. His hair was turning grey already, as middle-aged respectability became elderliness, his body revealing a spirit beaten down by sorrow and responsibility. “Well, since you were kind enough to begin, Argens, pray continue.”

The dwarf’s beard—it had once been black, though it grew whiter every month—shook with barely-concealed anger and resentment. “As you wish.” He grasped a massive ledger and swung open the cover. The heavy leather binding struck the table, with a loud thud that echoed through what had once been the throne room in Cair Paravel. Now the thrones stood empty and dusty, awaiting the monarchs whom Tumnus was certain would return. _If only he was right_ , thought Peridan, _for the sake of the realm. For Narnia’s sake_.

“Our income for this past month were two thousand, one hundred gold lions. Almost all of it was revenue from the crown’s own properties. The people simply refuse to pay taxes to a government they don’t recognize. We’ll pay when the monarchs return, they all say. Convenient, eh?”

“Barely enough to feed the army alone,” noted Oreius. “So our coffers will be entirely empty soon, I gather?”

Argens slammed shut the ledgers. “Yes, they will,” he snapped. “So if your precious army doesn’t want to starve or to dissolve, I suggest that you get if off its arse and use it to collect the taxes. If you have the stomach for it, that is. And if you don’t, then maybe we should find a replacement who does.”

“We shall not use force against our own people, Master Argens.” There was a dangerous glint in two pairs of eyes as Oreius and Argens stared at each other.

“Then we shall have to find other sources of revenue,” Tumnus hurriedly interrupted. “My lord Peridan, how were the negotiations in Tashbaan?”

The grating voice of the Grand Vizier echoed in Peridan’s head, a long speech of pleasantries that could have been succinctly delivered with a single word: no. “I explained that we would have a fine crop this autumn and could deliver it then, but he refused to give our merchants any credit. There’s simply no trust in Narnia…or its government or its ability to pay debts…anywhere in the world.”

“Not that our merchants would pay tariffs to us, for very reason Master Argens explained,” sighed Sallowpad the Raven.

_That dratted sound, all too common at our meetings. As if it made our situation one minim better. Sigh._

“Or perhaps we need a better diplomat,” Argens put in sourly.

 _I share in that sentiment more than you think, Master Argens_ , reflected Peridan. _Why me, of all people? I am a soldier, not a courtier._

Tumnus also sighed. “We _have_ no better diplomats with Calormene experience, Argens. We could send you, if you’d like.” That silenced the dwarf.

 “The picture that our spies report is bleak,” continued Sallowpad. “Archenland and the island nations are peaceful, for the moment. The Calormenes are slowly building a fleet, though. It should have been decades before it became a threat to ours, but with the current state of our navy, I’m not so certain.”

“Come to think of it, who of us is responsible for the navy?” queried Tumnus.

Four different voices rose, from the four others in the room. “It should be linked with the army,” Orieus stated.

“But it is naval personal who collect the tariffs, so they can’t be your men,” Argens shot back quickly.

“So the navy is now a tax-collecting agency?” squawked Sallowpad. “I need it for intelligence on Calormen and all the island nations!”

 _How could they all be so foolish? Surely they saw how important the navy was for foreign relations?_ “Gentlemen. Whenever I arrive in another country as representative of Narnia, the only projection of Narnian power visible is the navy. So for the good of the realm…”

“Enough of this bickering!” The table fell silent at Tumnus’ unusual outburst. The faun looked around at the four flushed faces, then buried his face in his hands. “We’ll appoint a naval commander at the next meeting, and hopefully you all will have recommendations,” he finally said. “Somebody make a note of it.”

Argens looked around the table. “The only paper we have is in this ledger.”

“Are you volunteering it?” asked Tumnus testily. “I’m sorry, Argens, then just…just make a note of it in your mind. Pray continue, Sallowpad.”

“In the west we have the threat of Telmar. No good news there, either. There’s been brigands in the Western Woods, coming further and further east. They’re almost certainly Telmarine; there’s been a drought in that country, and all sorts of desperate people as a result. It’s only a matter of time before they grow to raiding parties—without official Telmarine sanction, of course—and then maybe an actual invasion. They become bolder every time they aren’t stopped. The same applies to the bandits already within our borders.” He shot a look at Oreius.

“The army does what it can,” exclaimed the centaur general, “but we’re handicapped by lack of funds. No new equipment, no new fortifications, skeleton units—we’re down to a strength of three hundred. The griffins and giants have already been dismissed. We can barely garrison Cair Paravel and Beruna, let alone chase after bandits. Or for that matter collect taxes, Master Argens.”

“Well, what’s your alternative? Continue sitting on your backsides? Well, I suppose you in the army have had plenty of practice these past years.”

_It is no wonder that the people have no regard for our government. We cannot even hold a council meeting without this bickering and backstabbing. The very existence of Narnia is at stake, and we do not even have paper. We cannot continue with this disfunction. Courage, Peridan, for what you must do. Courage, with this group. A centaur, a faun, a dwarf, a raven. One would think they were a pack of ravenous wolves._

He cleared his throat. “We must face the inevitable. It has been two years since our monarchs disappeared. We formed this council to rule in their stead, but the people clearly do not accept this. It is time we considered declaring a new king. Our old monarchs will not return.”

Pain was etched into Tumnus’ kind face. “Our _present_ monarchs. The four will return, Peridan. I do not know when, but they will return.”

“And what land will they return to?” declared Peridan, with what anger he could muster. “A broken, empty land? A land overrun by Telmarine bandits, where the people cower in fear and the crops go unharvested? Will that be the final legacy of their memory? You, Tumnus, have a duty to the four. We, the council, have a duty to the realm.”

“And who will this august personage be, who the people will know and obey?” Sallowpad squawked. “That rake, Mallow of Galma? One of us? Even with Oreius and Tumnus on the council, the people still refuse to obey us. A Calormene princeling? Aslan knows, they have enough spare princes.”

 _Why couldn’t they see the obvious?_ “Lune of Archenland! We have all seen how capable a ruler he is. Our two countries would then be united in the face of whatever enemies may arise. And his great-great grandmother…”

“Yes, yes, was Queen of Archenland and the aunt and closest surviving relative of the last queen of Frank’s line,” finished Tumnus. “A claim that the Archenlanders never put forward.”

“Doubtless because of the Long Winter…”

“A winter in which we fought together,” Oreius said in his deep, grave voice. “ _We_ fought, despite the cold, despite the odds, despite the helplessness, despite having no real leader, all but one of us councilors—begging your pardon, Lord Tumnus—and we kept fighting. And have you forgotten what Archenland did for us? Nothing, in a hundred years. We bled and died for Narnia while the Archenlanders remained cozily in their castles. Surely you remember the apathy of your own people, my friend, when we pleaded for their help…any help.”

“If an Archen prince had stepped forward to claim the crown at any time before the Four came, the people would have followed him,” remarked Tumnus. “But not today. He would face the very situation we are in now.”

_A crown and a throne. Men will die for these, and men will die for those who hold them. You underestimate the power these hold, Master Tumnus. And Lune, or Cor, is the best option for Narnia._

“And what’s in it for you?” sneered Argens. “You, a native of Archenland? Hoping for a reward from your old king, eh?”

Peridan did not flinch. “In Archenland, I was a peasant. In Narnia, I became a lord. I owe everything to Narnia, and nothing to Archenland. And we all have a debt to Narnia, in one way or another. We owe it to the realm to find a new king. A good king with a legitimate claim, which Lune and then Cor would be.” He looked around the table for support, but all he saw were cold eyes. Suspicion from Argens, apathy on the part of Sallowpad, a pathetic denial in Tumnus. Oreius gave him a look—was it sympathy? One could never tell with the centaur.

“The four will, _must_ return,” repeated Tumnus. “We agreed to rule the nation—endeavor to, at least—until they returned.” A sickly smile passed across his face, as the meaning of the word _endeavor_ sank in. “It is not our place to supplant Aslan’s anointed ones.” The faun rose stiffly, grasping the table to brace his gouty legs. “This meeting is dismissed.”

Peridan heard them go—Tumnus at a slow clip-clop, Argens with his heavy stamp, Sallowpad with a slight flutter. But one clearly remained. Peridan opened his eyes and lifted his face from the hands in which he had buried it. Oreius was looking out the window, slowly lifting one foot and then setting down another, as he was want to do when thinking deeply.

“You were right,” the centaur said, slowly and gravely. “Our monarchs will not return, for now. There is confusion in the stars; now is a troubled time that the Four will not set straight.”

Peridan began breaking wax off the table. “How very kind of you to point that out now. I believe it’s the other three whom you must convince.”

Oreius turned around. “I didn’t, my friend, because there is a grave matter we must discuss. We need a king, and you suggest Lune. You know as well as I do that there will be opposition to an Archen ruler, but you persist because you believe that it is best for the realm. There is another alternative.”

A shaken Peridan emerged from the room an hour later. He made his way outdoors as quickly as possible, finding a hitching post and gripping it till the blood drained from his hands. _He cannot mean to do that. Oreius, you cannot. I cannot allow you to do that. It will destroy us…_

The melted wax was forgotten. Within the hour, Peridan rode for Anvard.

* * *


	4. Corin I

 

** Corin **

Corin loved the outdoors. Woods, fields, mountains, muddy roads, cobbled courtyards—it made no difference. To him, they all seemed to represent freedom. It wasn’t that he minded being indoors. Some of the hallways, with their polished wooden floors, made for magnificent sliding. And Anvard was an old castle; there were always all sorts of old passages and secret chambers suitable for exploration. Exploration, and—other, more adventurous activities. But in the outdoors, he could look up and around and see only the sky. No lessons painted into the frescoed ceilings and stained glass; no framed edicts from the illustrious reigns of his two or three dozen illustrious royal ancestors—he could never remember exactly how many there were, though he often wondered which ones were really illustrious—and no lists from King Lune describing Corin’s every duty as a prince of Archenland and second in line to the throne.

Outdoors, it felt like a burden was lifted off his shoulders. He no longer felt eyes critiquing all his movements and words, weighing them on the scale of princely behavior and finding them lacking. Oh, adults could still question and humiliate him, but at least outside he could shrug and run. It was slightly more difficult inside, where almost every wrong step seemed to involve knocking over a lord or a suit of armor. And the suits of armor usually included halberds. Corin had long decided that the only functional use of the weapon was for tripping princes.

He squinted as he stepped into the sun. Looking around the courtyard, he finally made out the form of his older brother, stepping through a perfunctory drill, practice sword shifting from guard to guard, blue cloak smoothly following his fluid motions. Cor could have waited, Corin thought. If it was he who arrived early, Corin would have found the closest haystack and lounged till his brother arrived. Or perhaps found Aravis and japed with her about some trifle or another, or accosted a servant to sneak him some cheese and wine. But no, Cor was already practicing, with determination and submission to duty written in every expression. _The perfect, dutiful older brother, as Father never stops reminding me. But my quarrel has never really been with Cor. Father, on the other hand…_

Cor finished the drill. “Head, left shoulder, right shoulder, left torso, right torso, left thigh, right thigh, down low.” The crown prince wiped a sheen of sweat off his forehead. _Aslan, how long has he been out here already?_ “Been flirting with the maids, little brother? You’re late.”

_He asked about the maids. That can be interpreted several ways._ “No,” Corin laughed. He picked up the other wooden sword. “Just avoiding my daily dose of humility.”

“From what I’ve seen these three years, it seems you need a larger dose. Let’s bout.” Cor gave the customary salute, faked to the left, cut at Corin’s head, and parried the riposte with ease.

_How does he do that?_ Corin huffed as Cor easily parried the rain of blows he began raining down. “Our doctor was obviously a hack,” he growled. The master of arms in Anvard, Sir Bellemore, was actually quite a pleasant man, and an excellent instuctor. But Corin never lost a chance for a joke at his expense. The poor fellow had been totally mystified by the mishaps to his equipment and person that always occurred on days he was to train the young princes, at least till Lune had stepped in. Corin still remembered the feel of the birch across his backside.

“Obviously you haven’t been taking his medicine,” Cor shot back with a smile. “I find him quite excellent.” Corin laughed. He did not resent Cor for being better than him; but he hated every derisive comparison that others drew. “Thou hast been raised to be a prince thine whole life,” Lune had said after watching them train one day, “whilst thy brother has only been trained for three years. Model thyself after him, and mayhap thou may yet not be a disappointment in my old age.”

Corin was sure that Lune really loved him, but the words still rankled. _Everything I do is a disappointment to him. When I try to please him, it isn’t enough; and when I seek an escape, it’s even worse. I shan’t even be king, anyway. That will be Cor. And yet Father insists on burdening me with future duties. Does he wonder why I don’t try?_

Something smelled different. He tried to remember what smelled like that—weathered wood? With a shudder, he realized he’d closed his eyes, and Cor was waving his practice sword under his nose. “Thinking of your unmaidenly maid? You can’t fool me with your equivocation, little brother.”

_Nay and aye, big brother_. Corin swatted away the wood and fell back into a guard, slowly circling his brother. “You know what father would say,” Cor continued.

_What father would say, what Cor would do, what a prince should do. I am sick and tired of all these. If only I were a farmer’s boy, free to roam the world_.Still, the thought of Lune finding out was worrisome. But then another thought occurred to him. _Being friendly with servants can have its uses_.A grin came back to his face. “And you’ll never tell him,” he said, leaning forwards conspiratorially. “Know why? You see, I was rooting through your room the other day, and I happened across a piece of poetry under your pillow. Unmistakably Calmorene, and so terribly sweet…”

Cor’s eyes widened just a sliver, and Corin took advantage of the moment. Laughing, he slipped under his brother’s guard and tackled him. Their wooden swords fell to the ground as the two young men wrestled on the dirt yard. Here Corin had the advantage, though he tried not to remember why. Years of malnutrition meant that Cor would never fill out in the same way as his brother.

Corin had almost pinned his brother when they heard the great brown gate creaking open. “Visitors,” Corin muttered in disgust as he helped up his brother and the two knocked the dirt off each other’s backs. He felt a trickle of blood on his lip from where Cor had managed to slip in a punch, and his trousers were ruined. Not that he minded; it would give him an excuse to visit the laundry rooms. There was a maid there whom he was certain had winked at him earlier…

“It’s Lord Peridan,” whispered Cor. “I wonder what brings him from Narnia.”

“I don’t like him,” Corin whispered back. “He’s so grim.”

His brother frowned. “He seemed happy enough in Tashbaan. Doubtless his present duties weigh on him.”

The object of their whispering had noticed them and turned his horse towards them. Peridan seemed a thoroughly unremarkable man. He wore a leather jerkin over chain mail rather than plate armor and a surcoat emblazoned with his arms, as was customary among the nobility in both Archenland and Narnia. His plain brown cloak and boots were covered in dust, and no men-at-arms accompanied him with banners flying high. Even his face was unremarkable—no scars, no piercing or laughing eyes, no square or jutting or receding jaw. At first glance, one would have thought him only a humble knight. Corin had seen the man around in Cair Paravel for a week without realizing Peridan’s importance, till Queen Susan coerced him into attending a council meeting and he discovered how high the quiet man was in their majesties’ counsel. But the son of a farmer did exude one thing, confidence—an unfailing belief that he and his opinions were in the right.

And to Corin, it seemed that this was true. There were certain unchanging truths in the world. Lune would think that Cor did everything better, nobody would ever be able to sail to Aslan’s country, and if Peridan planned something, it would work. Peridan also seemed to always be judging him, watching him without smiling. So Corin could never really like the man, though he didn’t dislike him, either. Not that either of them seemed to care.

“Welcome to Anvard,” Cor called out. “This is a pleasant, if unexpected, honor!”

“It might not seem so pleasant before the day is over,” Peridan said mildly as he swung off his horse. He seemed to want to say more, but changed his mind. “I must speak with your royal father. Where might I find him?”

“Come with me, my lord.” Cor picked up one of the discarded practice swords and tossed it to Corin as he walked off. “Your turn.”

But Corin had no intention of staying and practicing. The sun was high in the sky now, and there was plenty of mischief to be done in the few hours before his afternoon lessons. He also idly wondered why, judging from his bloodshot eyes, Peridan had ridden through the night.

He wheedled a wheel of cheese from a servant in the kitchen, with the aid of a kiss stolen in a quiet corner; found a flask of wine buried in his closet; and slipped past the guard at the gate. There was a farmer half a league away, and he and his children would not be working that day. Well, it was the children in whom he was interested. _Freedom, here in the outdoors, away from judging eyes_ , he thought.

He was with two of them, chasing each other through the corn stalks, when Cor found him, a couple short hours later. “Come with me,” the elder prince called. “Father wants us back in the castle. He’s called for all the nobles to assemble, as well. No, I don’t know why. I brought your horse.”

“Oh, and bathe and change your clothes,” Cor added as they rode back towards the castle. Cor had a great white charger that reminded him of Bree, and Corin a spotted palfrey. “Father wants you spotless.”

“How did you know where I was?” Corin asked, changing the subject quickly. “You never come with me to the farmer’s.”

“That’s because you only go there on days when he isn’t working,” his brother snapped, and then would say nothing more.

_Is he bloody helping him in the fields_? Corin wondered. The two rode in silence back to the castle.

To his surprise, a bath had already been drawn and his finest clothes lain out on his bed when he arrived in his room. A good deal of red and gold trim, the colors of Archenland. And two of his father’s knights were waiting for him at the door when he had finished his bath and changed into the fresh clothes. “Your father is in the throne room,” one of them told him as they fell into step behind him.

_Does he expect me to get lost on the way_? Corinwondered uncomfortably as he listened to the footfalls echoing his own. He pretended to yawn while dragging his feet to see what would happen, only to hear the knights fall back into step as he continued walking. _Bother_.

The throne room was crowded with lords and ladies, whispering with each other. It seemed that they did not know why they had been called, either. Cor stood behind the throne, while Lune himself sat on the chair and whispered with Peridan. The king looked up when he saw his younger son. “Ah, now thou art here, let us begin. Lord Peridan, please explain.”

“Narnia is in chaos.” Peridan’s tones were clipped and his speech to the point. _At least it’s him and not someone more long-winded. Actually, this means I’ll miss my lessons! Hurrah!_ “The treasury is empty because the people refuse to pay taxes, the army and navy are untended, and our borders and interior are infested with bandits. The royal council has sought to govern the realm for two years, waiting for their majesties to return, but the people do not recognize our authority. Narnia needs a king. I speak, not for the council, but for the good of the country. Your majesty, the blood of Frank and Helen flows through you. Take the throne, or send Prince Cor in your stead. Narnia will at last have the stability it deserves, with a strong king, and together our countries will be the most powerful in the world, safe from all foreign threats.”

Lune nodded. “Queen Swanwhite was the last ruler of Narnia before the coming of the Witch. Her father had but one sister, and when Swanwhite and her family were killed the claim to the throne passed to her aunt. This aunt married mine ancestor Dur, son of Athelstane, of beloved memory, and so the right to the throne of Narnia hast resided thenceforth in the line of the kings of Archenland. Now the line of the Pevensies is passed from this world, and it is time for that of Frank and Helen to return. I have waited for one of thy countrymen to make such an offer, all these past two years. It is a circumstance that will be of great advantage to both our countries. And yet people will whisper that together we wouldst be too mighty, and that we wouldst take advantage of a leaderless neighbor, to profit Archenland. Furthermore, ‘tis a great burden to sit on a throne, and I fear that it wouldst corrupt lesser men, in years to come, to have such power as two kingdoms. For these reasons I shalt renounce my claim to the throne, and Cor likewise, since he is mine heir to this chair.”

_But if the succession passes through Lune and Cor, and both renounce it, then any children Cor might have can’t press a claim. To whom does the claim then pass?_

Peridan looked very displeased. “Prince Corin, then?”

_Oh, shucks._ Corin felt a hundred eyes on him. “But…but…I don’t want it. Can’t I renounce it too?”

Lune fixed him with a stern gaze. “Thou art a prince of Archenland. Thy duties must come before thy wants. And the people of Narnia call out for thee. Wilt thou abandon them in their hour of need?”

_The people of Narnia? I see one man, and an Archen-born one at that_. ”But father, I wouldn’t be a good king for them. I’m a fighter, not a ruler. I can outbox a bear and defeat a giant, not out-fence diplomats. I can fight for you and for Cor, when he is king, but I can’t be a king myself.”

“And those deeds that thou hast done were done with thy own glory in mind, but here thou hast the chance for more. Thou hast been raised to be a king, all thy life after thy brother was thought lost. Let the lessons not go to waste. I know that thou wilt prove thyself a worthy king. Thou shalt be crowned here, in the presence of the rest of the royal line of Frank and Helen and of these assembled lords and ladies, so that no disloyal subjects may question your claim. On the morn thou wilt ride for Cair Paravel, with loyal men at thy side.” _So he praises me, even as he subtly says that others will go to direct me._

Lord Tran stepped forward. He was a large, barrel-chested man with a bushy beard and crossed keys emblazoned on his black tunic. “Your majesty!” he cried. “Let me command the van!”

A lord with greying hair, a square, pockmarked face, and a bull for his sigil pushed his way to the front of the crowd. Lord Torrin, Corin knew. “Then I claim command of the outriders!”

“The right wing is mine,” shouted Lord Shar, and other voices joined his. Corin recognized the roar of Lord Dar and Lord Cole’s more measured but gravelly voice.

“Peace, noble brothers,” cried Lune, standing up. “We go not to war, though my son shall have a suitable escort. But if thou wouldst follow him, then thou shalt swear allegiance to him, as subjects of Narnia and not of Archenland. And if thou decide to continue serving him, after a time, it shall be at the cost of thine estates here in Archenland. I am certain Corin will find thee recompense in Narnia.”

“I’ll serve on those terms,” shouted Tran as he knelt, and so did Torrin and Shar and Cole, though Dar and Darrin hung back. “King Corin, you have my service and fealty!”

Corin knew he should say something, to acknowledge their allegiance, to be a liege lord. But his world was spinning. I don’t want this, I don’t want this, he kept saying to himself, even as he knew it would be hopeless to run. _Too many people; I’d never make it out the room_. But Lune kept on talking.

“Lord Dar, thou wilt command a force of mine own knights as I deem sufficient to protect Corin, though thou need not swear fealty to him. Sir Darrin, I know thee to be a man of wise counsel. Thou shalt go with my son, as shall his royal brother, Prince Cor, to provide him with such counsel as thou hast provided me. But Peridan shall be his principal advisor. Sir Bellemore, fetch the ancient crown of Narnia that hast been in our protection. We shall have the crowning now.”

“Look at me, son,” Lune whispered to Corin, as the knight scuttled off the fetch the crown. The whole room was shouting—it seemed to Corin that they might be cheering for him—but it was all just ringing in his ears. His world seemed to close in on him, till it was just Lune and himself. “I know thou likest this but little. I know the burden it is; I have worn my crown for close on forty years now. But remember all that I have taught thee, and remember thy duties as king must come first. Now smile, as our subjects expect.”

_As if being king could sound any worse_. Sir Bellemore was back now, carrying, on a velvet cushion, the crown that had burdened the head of King Frank. It was a light, delicate, beautiful circle set with rubies, but to Corin it seemed a monstrous hunk. It was coming closer, closer, closer…Corin longed to knock it over and run. His legs were itching, too, but he could not scratch them. So was his nose. _Maybe I can change court etiquette. Or appoint a Royal Nosescratcher._

“A Narnian shouldst do the deed,” Lune proclaimed, turning to Peridan. “Wilt thou administer the oath and place the crown?”

Peridan had been frowning the whole time. Now he positively scowled. “It should be somebody more notable,” he said. This made Corin feel slightly better, that somebody else wasn’t enjoying the proceedings any more than himself.

But Lune insisted, and the lord had to submit. _As if anybody could stand against the will of my father_. There was silence, and Corin realized Peridan had said the first part of the oath. _What if I say I forgot the words? We’d have to wait for them to find it written down somewhere, and maybe they’ll have changed their minds by then._ But he looked at his father, and Cor’s sympathetic look, and Peridan’s set face, and knew there was no turning back. And so he said the words, words passed down from the very beginning of the world and which were found in the coronation oaths of both Archenland and Narnia. “May I bear this title with honor, as befitting a king of Narnia. May I always place Aslan and His people above myself. May I rule my subjects kindly and fairly, remembering that they are Talking Beasts and free subjects. May I be just and merciful and brave. May I, if enemies come against my land, be first in the charge and last in the retreat. So help me Aslan.”

Peridan took the circlet in both hands, held it high above Corin’s head for all to see, and then set it down gently. It didn’t feel so bad, actually. Maybe he could let his hair grow down over his forehead to cushion that part of the crown. _But then perhaps they will say it is not regal enough…_

Lune nodded to Sir Bellemore as Corin turned to face the crowd. He could hear everything now, hammering into his head. “All hail his majesty, Corin the First, by the grace of Aslan, King of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel, and Emperor of the Lone Islands. Hail, all hail!”

He forced himself to smile. _As a prince, at least I had some freedom. But now…even my smiles must be measured._

“Long live the king!” Peridan acclaimed, as he stepped back and knelt in obeisance.

“Hail, King of Narnia! King of Narnia! King of Narnia!” the crowd shouted. Corin felt sick.

“Punch me,” he told Cor. The crown prince looked at him, surprised. “I’m sure it’s just a bad dream.”

* * *

  _Corin_

_ _


End file.
